The Modeliser (15 page)

“Gabe Tynan, a pleasure,” she murmured quietly, her mind
already buzzing. If Gabe Tynan were to come back to Époque, it would mark an
incredible coup for the magazine. She focused as she heard Tobias introducing
her.

“Gabe, this is Helena Golden, one of our finest, I predict
great things for her,” Tobias said with a wink that grated on Helena’s nerves.
“Of course you’ll know of her mother, Sula and her father Elliot Golden.”
Helena felt the smile tighten on her face; she hated it when her parents were
trailed after her name, as though their celebrity status explained her success.

“The pleasure is mine,” Gabe was saying. He held his hand out
to her and as their eyes met, Helena felt a moment of discomfort as though Gabe
had sensed her irritation with Tobias. She shook the thought off, she’d learned
from an early age to school her features to betray nothing. She grasped his
hand and as his fingers folded around hers, Helena felt an instinctive desire
to pull away from him. She fought it but couldn’t avoid the mocking smile in
his eyes, as he finally let go. Helena watched him as he turned to shake hands
with Chloe and she was left with a discomfiting sense that somehow he knew that
he’d got to her.

Three hours later, the existing plans for the Centenary issue
had been trashed and Helena fought the desire to put her head in her hands and
weep as she realised exactly what she was up against. Poppy had been dispatched
to another clinic to dry out and in her absence it fell to Helena to pick up
the slack and create a new Centenary issue. Chloe would take on Helena’s normal
duties, leaving Helena to work exclusively with Gabe on the special edition.
After Chloe and Tobias had finally departed, the temporary arrangements agreed
upon, Helena had watched with a growing sense of helplessness as Gabe began
with a stream of instructions and they agreed that the next day she would arrive
at his East London studio so that they could begin the process of creating from
scratch a centenary issue that would put the name Époque back on the lips of
every fashionista worth his or her salt.

“Great,” Helena said rising from her chair, as their meeting
seemed finally to have come to a close. “I’ll get the old book to you tonight…”
but Gabe broke into her sentence cutting her off.

“No need,” he said waving his arm dismissively. “Tobias has
given me absolute discretion on this project. Forget the book. We start from
scratch.” Helena’s eyes narrowed and she felt herself bristle at his arrogance
though she bit down on the impulse to defend her old editor. Poppy might no
longer be at the top of her game but some of her ideas for the issue were still
worth salvaging but there was a look in Gabe’s eyes that made Helena realise
that for now at least, it was best to simply go where he led. She nodded.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow in Shoreditch,” she said with the
kind of glacial smile that had in the early years of her career given rise to
the nickname of Ice Princess. This look was usually enough to ensure that
people backed off. But it seemed that Gabe wasn’t most people. He moved towards
her, coming around the table that had separated them until he stood directly in
front of her. There was a pregnant pause and then he spoke.

“I understand you recently suffered a bereavement,” he said.
His voice was low and for the first time she caught the faint burr of his Irish
roots in his accent. “My condolences.” Their eyes met and held and Helena was
filled with the discomfiting sense that he wanted to see her rattled.

“Thank you,” she said simply, her expression one of utter
detachment. Her grief had no place at work and especially with this man, she
would show no weakness. With a nod, Helena grabbed her Moleskine notebook off
the desk and turned smartly, feeling her face heat up, knowing that he was
watching her walk away.

“Helena,” he called her name out quietly but there was an air
of command and she turned round to face him. “You’re not what I expected,” he
said quietly and after a moment, he dropped back into his chair and began
scrolling through emails on his iPhone. She had been dismissed. Holding back a
hiss of irritation, Helena walked out of the room. What had he expected, she
wondered. As she rode back down in the lift, she laughed bitterly. Of course
she knew what he’d expected. Her mother was an iconic model, a free-loving,
champagne-swilling embarrassment and her brother was best known, not for his
prodigious talent, but for the revolving door to his bedroom. And as for her
father… And here Helena stopped. She had worked hard to escape the burden of
her family name. Her conservative demeanour often surprised people, perhaps
disappointed them, but she was fine with that. Her composure restored, Helena
emerged back onto her floor, striding towards her office. By the time she sat
back down at her desk, her mind was abuzz with ideas for the special centenary
project; this might just be the project to fire up her passion again and as she
turned to her computer screen, she made herself a promise. Gabe Tynan would not
get to her.

In
the bright reception of Rough Draft Productions, Talia sat with her knees
primly together, feeling grateful that she had allowed Helena to make her over.
Rough Draft was unlike most of the film offices around London; for one thing
their offices were located in one of the most expensive parts of town and not
some poky rented space above a sandwich shop somewhere in Soho. The purpose
built space was bright and aspirational, all glass doors, exposed brick walls
and sofas in primary colours, like some New York City loft apartment. Rough
Draft wore their success for all to see. From her vantage point on the sofa in
reception, Talia watched girls as beautiful as models and louche boys who
wouldn’t be out of place in a Francois Truffaut film stride about the offices.
The walls were adorned with film posters marking out the many critical and
commercial successes of the company. Talia inhaled deeply as a beat of
excitement began to pump through her veins. This place smelt of ambition and
aspiration and success. In a place like this, one could really make things
happen. She allowed a small bubble of hope to punch through her. She had
allowed herself to be sucked into the quagmire of television but it was film
that she had loved first, film that was in her blood. She wanted to work here.

“Talia hi.” Talia was interrupted from her excited musings by
the approach of a tall girl. “I’ll just show you in to see Sara Adamson.” Talia
looked up in surprise, she'd been expecting to meet Andy Hail, the senior
executive whom she had sent her email to and who had replied to ask her to come
in.

“Great,” Talia said with enthusiasm.
I must not be
intimidated by the assistant
, she chanted in her head, as they walked through the
offices. As she followed the willowy assistant, who no doubt had a
double-barrelled surname and a trust fund somewhere, Talia felt the beginnings
of a new concern as she thought about her long-standing friendship with Sara
Adamson, though to call it a friendship was probably overstating things.
Talia thought back to when she and Sara had both been young freelance script
readers knocking on doors all over town, reading for screenwriting competitions
and trying to get in-house staff positions. Talia had landed an assistant job
in TV and Sara had become a runner for Rough Draft and there, their paths had
diverged, until now. The assistant was talking again.

“Can I get you some water or a coffee?” She asked Talia as
they approached a door. Talia shook her head as through the glass partition,
she caught a glimpse of a woman sitting at a desk on a telephone call. The
woman waved at them and belatedly Talia realised that it was Sara. As she
entered the office and took a seat, Sara mimed to Talia that she would be done
any minute. Talia watched awed at the transformation in her old friend. For one
thing she was no longer a blonde. Her hair was a head-turning auburn, which
caught the afternoon sunlight, and her face was painstakingly made up with a
slash of scarlet on her lips.

Sitting in the armchair, Talia
allowed her gaze to rove around Sara’s bright corner office. Floor to ceiling
windows flooded the room with light and one wall was dominated by scripts and
DVDs and framed film posters. Squinting Talia noted that one of the framed
images was a cover of Variety magazine commemorating the $100 million plus box
office of Star Crossed one of Rough Draft’s most successful productions.
Finally Talia took in the view, which was nothing short of spectacular looking
out onto one of the gorgeous and quintessentially English Squares that could be
found dotted around Central and West London. Talia felt a sense of foreboding
as she watched Sara surreptitiously and tried not to listen too obviously to
her phone conversation.

"Of course she can follow
the money and go with an LA studio but what she gets with us is an English
producer with a track-record of taking big book adaptations to the screen. We
actually understand her vision and we won't suddenly move the locations from
Cambridge to California or turn the netball team into cheerleaders.” Sara
turned to Talia now, rolling her eyes heavenward apologetically. “Look, talk it
over but our offer won't be on the table indefinitely." Sara finished
as she terminated the call and swivelled around in her chair to face
Talia.

"Talia darling,” she
gushed rising from her seat to air kiss the space around Talia's head before
she moved back behind her desk.

“Sara...” Talia replied gazing
in wonder at this poised, perfectly coiffed creature who was poured into
what could have been no more than a size 8 Anthroplogie shift dress and a
pair of kitten heels. The Sara of old had been a loud, buxom, dyed-blonde
girl, with a strong Liverpool Scouse Accent, who had a tendency to squeeze
herself into too-tight Lycra tops and leggings finished off with clumpy
Doc Marten boots.

"Look good, don't I?” Sara
commented and Talia smiled. The Northern accent might have been smoothed into
plummy London middle class vowels but that arrogance was pure Sara of
old. "Boob reduction on the NHS, best thing I’ve ever done and with
the personal trainer and the fags, I can squeeze into sample sizes,"
Sara finished triumphantly. "So….” Sara’s gaze probed Talia. “How
about you?”

"Actually I thought I was
seeing Andy,” Talia volunteered.

"Oh who needs Andy?” Sara
interrupted with a smile. “He mentioned he was seeing you but I told him I knew
you.” The unease in Talia deepened as she recognised the snake-like smile on
Sara’s face. The hair colour and the body might have changed but the
ambition, the willingness to pimp her own grandmother in the service of
her career that was still the same. Sara had performed a textbook
manoeuvre, Talia realized; she had cock-blocked her. Sara would never
allow another person to join the company that could prove to be
competition, especially not someone of similar age, with a similar level of
experience to her.

"So, you are finally
moving on from TV? About time,” Sara said with a laugh. “What was that show you
were working on?” Sara feigned disinterest and Talia felt her blood boil
as her last four years of hard work were dismissed as nothing.

“Encounters,” she replied
through gritted teeth.

“Right, one of the soaps.” The
curl of Sara’s lips as she said the word soap left Talia in no doubt of how
little Sara thought of her career in TV to date. “You’ve been out of
the film game a while and a lot has changed,” Sara continued, a look of
false commiseration on her face. “TV credits well, they don't really
translate do they.” Talia felt the last vestiges of hope die in her, so long as
Sara was at Rough Draft, the door would be closed to her.

"Well it was good of you
to see me," Talia murmured quietly determined not to give Sara any
more satisfaction. She watched the snake-like smile spread again across Sara’s
face. It often worked out this way in the industry - contemporaries who started
out together would in the end wind up as adversaries. There was no room for
friendships, not really.
 

“We do sometimes have some
freelance script reading,” Sara said. “Payment is per script and you'd
have to do a trial script report, you understand.” Talia gritted her teeth
as the desire to rip Sara limb from limb rose up through her. She’d rather
eat her laptop than do trial coverage, like some brand new intern or something.

“Well thanks again,” Talia
repeated rising from her seat.

“I've got your CV,” Sara said
waving the sheet of paper and Talia knew that by the time she hit the
downstairs lobby, her resume would be lining Sara’s dustbin.

Another Edith Piaf song greeted Alex as he entered his
grandfather’s Hampstead house for the first time since the reading of the
will had named him the new owner of the property. Alex had been filled with
a confusing mix of emotions at the news. The house held his happiest
childhood memories but now added to those memories was a sense of guilt that he
had let his grandfather down. America was his home now and he'd even
started the process to take US citizenship, he had no real need for a
permanent London base. The place would have to be sold he had mentally decided,
even as he tried to push aside niggling thoughts about keeping the house.

“Lex, is that you?” Alex turned
at the sound of Helena’s voice and he bounded up the stairs in the direction
that her call had come from.